Starlight on a Pall
by ParadoxOfInfinity
Summary: Post DH or rather, a missing scene. Harry said that remorse was Voldemort’s last chance. He was wrong. Dumbledore, Voldemort, and Bellatrix discuss love, death, and redemption at King’s Cross  and beyond.
1. I

Summary: Post DH (or rather, a missing scene). Harry said that remorse was Voldemort's last chance. He was wrong. Dumbledore, Voldemort, and Bellatrix discuss love, death, and redemption at King's Cross - and beyond.

Pairings: a dash of Bellatrix/Voldemort, only for plot purposes. (Although I am a shipper)

Warnings: SPOILERS FOR THE DEATHLY HALLOWS.

Disclaimer: The characters and excerpts used in this story belong to their respective authors. There may be a few quotations unintentionally included in the text. No credit is being taken for their work. Don't sue me.

So, after the year-long hiatus, I, author Ve, am back. Currently I plan to work on the Death Eater's Handbook, and if you have noticed, I have removed "Tiles" in order to polish it up a little. Author Ev is extending her own hiatus a little longer, from what I know.

Enjoy…this piece was conceived at 3 a.m. after a marathon reading session. May contain weirdness.

* * *

**Starlight on a Pall**

(Alternatively titled: "Remorse")

_Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined_

_Then desolately fall,_

_O God! On my funeral mind_

_Like starlight on a pall –_

_Thy heart – _thy_ heart! – I wake and sigh,_

_And sleep to dream till day_

_Of the truth that gold can never buy –_

_Of the baubles that it may._

Excerpt from "To ------ ", E. A. Poe.

* * *

I

Pain and terror do not necessarily go hand in hand, and they are two of the only things that one can never wish for more of. When one is in pain, one must be terrified of any possible increase in the level of pain; when one is terrified, one must be terrified of any possible increase in the level of terror. In short, it is therefore generally better to be in terror than in pain, because terror would only lead to more of terror and not pain as well.

Then again, the man widely known as Lord Voldemort wasn't exactly an average person. Finding himself in both terror and pain does not make him feel bothered in the slightest. Indeed, pain was not a novelty but a matter of everyday life to him – in the form of others' suffering and, occasionally, as experienced by himself. However, terror was an entirely different matter** – **after all, he had just experienced one of the only things he feared in life; that is, death. It wouldn't have troubled him so much if his mind had vanished completely, or if there was somebody around to help him. As it was, he was fully conscious of his surroundings, and there was nobody present as far as he could see. All around was a dense fog of some sort, while he floated, unsupported, in its midst. Dead?

The mist that swirled and drifted all about began to not clear but solidify, first into a floor below his aching back, then into a high, glass-domed ceiling far above his head. He inwardly groaned. This was the same hall that he had seen after he killed the boy in the Forest…and if he was correct, he would soon find himself stuck in a body similar to the one he had before taking the boy's blood to create a new one. Dead?

His view of the place was limited to the expansive, golden ceiling, vision slightly blurry, as it had been last time. Feeling other than the background of pain returned, and he felt the floor under him to be cold and the air through his throat, dry. Dead?

Breathing became harder to do, and his spirits sank further. This was it. When he killed the boy, he had truly died – and, somehow, he was dying again. The boy…lived? Confusing – but there he was, in the strange golden hall.

_This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't in the plan. This was, for Merlin's sake, exactly what Horcruxes were supposed to protect him against! _

He lied there and quietly wondered whether anyone would come this time, if only so he could be completely certain about his theory. Last time, he had heard footsteps and distant voices, floating through the air and piquing his interest. Surely someone would notice? Surely --

There it was! Distantclicks on the stone floor, which could only be the sound made by sturdy shoes. He had been strangely calm before, but now he felt his heart clench and his mind barely able to function. In his excitement, he tried to call to the unknown being, but stopped after emitting only a soft whimper and nearly choking on what must have been his tongue. However, it had worked; the clicks were getting closer. He could almost feel the ground vibrate, and he could _actually_ feel the still air disturbed by what could only be the swish of robes.

The person was bending over now, slowly, cautiously, as if making sure of his existence. He – no, wait, she, had long, dark hair that temporarily blocked his view of the ceiling.

_Bellatrix?_ He thought in wonder and despair. So it was certain, then. This was indeed Death. Death, the place he had sought to escape, an abnormally large and nearly empty hall. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry -- that is, if he were capable of doing either.

Bellatrix was still there. Over his terror and pain and urge to laugh or cry, he worried that even she would not recognize him, or worse, would abandon him. However, all doubt was blown away when she touched his shoulder, because for a moment, a golden moment, he was able to _feel_ her unwavering loyalty as if he were she. He recoiled in shock, and so did she. Gingerly, she re-established the contact.

"Can you hear me, my Lord?" she said out loud.

_Yes._ He thought, and miraculously, she seemed to hear him. Her eyebrows were raised in slight surprise.

Managing for a moment to overcome the terror and the pain and the urge to laugh or cry and the curiosity, he replied in his habitual, dry tone.

_It appears I am only able to communicate when there is skin contact. A hassle, yes, but no great matter. Now, about –_

He was about to mention what had happened at Hogwarts, but decided otherwise.

_-- this curious place_, he connected flawlessly, _what have you learnt?_

She leaned closer to the ground. "My Lord," she whispered into his ear, "Dumbledore is here also."

* * *

Dumbledore had always insisted that death would be "a great adventure". To many, this would mean many happy reunions and eager exchanges of the latest happenings. To many, this would mean seeing friends and family again or for the first time, forgiving enemies, and letting go of all their mortal woes.

Of course, if most of the people one recognizes happened to have been dispatched by oneself, things might not turn out so pleasantly. Voldemort's anger towards the old man flared dangerously, but he was also apprehensive. What if Dumbledore wished to annihilate him? Not being able to fight back had always frustrated him, and he was positive that the current situation was the worst encountered thus far. Bellatrix, obviously, was expecting him to confront Dumbledore.

No way. Never in eternity. He can figure out his questions by himself.

Yet, he had a feeling that he was meant to talk with the old fool.

Besides, he reasoned, if he had to stay here forever, his resolve will sooner or later disintegrate. Speak with him once, and he will never have to do it again.

Just once.

_Where is he?_

"At the far end of the hall, seated." Bellatrix glanced up. "He seems to be … whistling."

_Carry me, then. _

There was a rustling sound. She did pick him up, but not before wrapping the useless infantile body in a cloak. When she walked, the swaying motion made him feel slightly nauseous. It was better than when Wormtail had carried him, just not by much. Additionally and discomfortingly, Bellatrix rose much higher from the ground than the short, cowardly servant. He was therefore very grateful when she finally sat down.

Facing Dumbledore.

The former Headmaster of Hogwarts sat on a golden chair, his blue robes reflecting the – sunlight? – that the hall was saturated with. There was another surge of fury, more urgent and consuming than before.

"We meet again, Tom." The silver-haired wizard said pleasantly, but his voice contained a trace of sadness. Voldemort felt like throwing every hex he could think of at that horribly serene face. How dare he? _How dare he?_ Even here, even after they've lived and fought and died and been betrayed and betrayed again?

His hands clenched automatically, and he was rewarded with a painful shock up his arms. Yet, Voldemort remained silent. He glared at the speaker. Bellatrix simply stared.

"I suppose I was foolish to think that you would change." Yes, Dumbledore was definitely sad now – perhaps not sad, but disappointed once more in a long history of disappointments. "You would never have listened to Harry's warning."

"…_I'd advise you to think about what you've done…try for some remorse, Riddle…I've seen what you'll be otherwise…" said Potter._

"Lies. All lies!" he hissed venomously, through Bellatrix's voice. "The boy is an ignorant _simpleton_ who knows nothing about magicks more glorious than his little book of spells and his _love_."

Dumbledore raised one bushy eyebrow. "Oh? Then tell me, Tom, how do you explain your death?"

"I – " he stuttered, having thought of nothing at first, "— it was a mistake. An accident. I was careless… and I didn't know of the Malfoy boy's connection with the Elder Wand. You don't believe that Potter survived because of his _skill_?"

"Tom," Dumbledore said quietly, "take a look at yourself. Do you call mutilating your soul 'glorious'? Do you call the young man who has lost so much by your doing, and yet tried to save you nevertheless, 'ignorant'?

"If there is anyone here who is ignorant, it is you."

"My plan failed, that's all. Partly because of the boy, partly because of – of some other factors…"

"Had you known everything, you would not have tried it in the beginning. I can tell that you still don't understand why Harry survived all of your attempts on his life --" Voldemort, through Bellatrix, tried to interrupt, but Dumbledore spoke on. "Oh, you _know_ what it was, but you do not _comprehend_ it. You have never experienced it."

"Why would I want to?" he sneered.

"Because," his enemy's tone became very patient, as if he were speaking to a particularly stupid child, "your very incomprehension also played a part. For example, the protection that Lily Potter gave to her son --"

"I was able to overcome that!" it came out in a snarl.

"Yes, but through this blood connection, you were also able to save Harry --"

"_What?_"

"— when he arrived here not so long ago. As long as you could not be slain, neither could he."

The realization hit him so hard; it was almost a physical blow. It was his fault, then and always. While his mind set off racing to affirm this startling conclusion, he could see Bellatrix looking at him and Dumbledore in turn, with an expression of shock.

"Do you mean," she whispered to the bearded wizard, "that my Lord has split his _soul _--"

"Unfortunately." He replied with a sigh that made his moustache twitch.

She looked back at him; he could see her face above him, bearing an unidentifiable emotion. Her eyes seemed to say something, but he couldn't figure out what exactly. Then, the storm broke.

"I'm so sorry." She whispered in his ear, voice growing hoarse, and, strangely, close to tears. "I should have done better for you…"

_Quiet, Bella, be quiet. This is not the time. _

She recomposed herself. Meanwhile, he turned his attention back to Dumbledore. "You say that I do not understand this favourite explanation of yours, but you yourself have not an iota of knowledge about what _you_ have done, either…"the throat he was using still threatened to sob.

"How is that so, Tom? All we have tried to do is to _redeem_ you."

"Redeem me? REDEEM me?" the voice cracked. "Don't pretend you don't know, old man. You know perfectly well what your precious Potter has done when he destroyed my Horcruxes. How dare he even mention _remorse_, when he himself had eliminated any chances I had – at your command? Souls can be repaired, but not _regenerated_, Dumbledore."

His enemy seemed to consider this, his merry eyes looking, for a brief second, put out.

He laughed, the sound not as familiar as the one his once cold and high voice generated. "Is that _pity_ I see?" when Dumbledore did not respond, he continued, "save it. You have your revenge. You win." He spat the sentence out forcefully; it even _tasted_ disgusting. "I know something which is worse than death. Now, if you don't _mind_, we will be leaving."

Bellatrix stood up, infallible and as always, knowing exactly what he wanted.

"But there is a way." Behind him, the wizard whispered. "There is a way, Tom." His voice grew louder. "A way to change your state – but only if you are willing to change yourself."

Voldemort ignored it. Looking around the place that vaguely resembled a train station of some sort, he had no idea where to go next. The place was still entirely devoid of any other being. He glanced up at the too-bright patch of …sky… above his head, and knew that this was no sun providing the warm light.

"Which route do you fancy?" the pleasant voice of the former Headmaster carried merrily over Bellatrix's shoulders. "I myself am planning to return to Hogwarts."

Just then, there was a loud noise that echoed around the empty hall. Voldemort gave an involuntary start. It was followed by a clunking sound that grew more and more boisterous; Bellatrix spun around, nearly dropping her Lord, and both of them stared at the source of the disruption. It was something straight from his very secret, very – childish, very innocent (if he had ever _been_ innocent) dreams. _No_, he told himself, _such a thing should not exist here._ Not after death – yet there it was.

Through the copious amounts of wafting steam, they could see a large, scarlet something pull up to one of the platforms. It was clear to all three of them that the Hogwarts Express has just arrived.


	2. II

II

As mentioned before, a surefire way of ensuring oneself an unpleasant afterlife is to send others there before oneself. Now, if one were to make an attempt at redemption, these poor dead souls would undoubtedly hinder one's progress by a significant amount.

Therefore, Lord Voldemort decided to stay out of sight once they arrived at what appeared to be an afterlife-version of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It seemed that departed souls could visit different places just as if they were still alive; he has seen people from many different eras going to and fro, their dress and behaviour in stark contrast with one another. He was very familiar with the place, and decided to use the Forest as a temporary, if not permanent, hiding place.

He had, indeed, been thinking about redemption, but in truth it was less a matter of redemption to him than it was a way to improve his presently helpless situation. After approximately a year's time in the Forest (for what was time to those who have all of it before them?), he remained in the form of a rather disturbing child.

Pain and terror do not necessarily go hand in hand, and they are two of the only things one can never wish for more of. When one is in pain, one must be terrified of any possible increase in the level of pain; when one is terrified, one must be terrified of any possible increase in the level of terror. In short, it is therefore generally better to be in terror than in pain, because terror would only lead to more of terror and not pain as well.

Recently, he has been experiencing much more terror than pain. Despite what he had said to Dumbledore, after a few months of lonely existence in the woods and faced with an eternity more, he was fully prepared to consider even remorse to remedy himself.

He only decided to because of fully selfish intentions, one must understand; for a soul such as he there can be nothing unconditional, nothing done for its own sake.

The lack of success frightened him deeply.

It wasn't as if he hadn't tried; he tried so much that he stayed silent for hours and even days, blindly grasping for the least trace of guilt in his mind. Recalling his memories, one by one, back as long as he could remember. Yet, all he could feel was anger and frustration and hatred and all the emotions that have been reduced to mere nuisances in his quest. This quest he never meant to undertake.

Hatred that words cannot express for Dumbledore, for Potter, and for himself. For Snape too, the bat-like figure who now stood for all betrayals in his eyes, conniving, lying, deceitful. Like himself, but he, of course, could not love.

Anger at his own failure, his own ignorance. Useless, for were his deeds not indeed ones that _anger_ could not revenge, love could not endure, friendship could not forgive? Anyway, he never had friends.

Frustration. _Why?_ Why does it not work? Why punish him at a time like this? Why does his _mortal_ life still haunt him?

Oh, there was pity too – but only for his own broken self.

In short, he feared for his future because he had been unable to do anything about _remorse_. He had not expected to, for _he knew that he knew himself_ too well. After the ordeals he had put his soul through, remorse was outside of his capabilities – and this had been done with his full intentions. When he began making Horcruxes, he had assumed that at some moment in the future he will experience remorse, and therefore made himself immune to it. There was no regret for this precaution-turned-curse now.

As to what next now, he had not a single thing in mind. There was no illuminating light that flooded his mind like there used to be; no flashes of brilliance that bought forth a wealth of ideas. In the ministry of theory and ideology he held all the keys. In the field of emotion he was lost -- as if that field was actually an ocean, and he, the poor earthbound creature, was sinking.

* * *

Then, he sensed it. A heartbeat, a pulse, a way out! The light once again shone bright in his mind, and he suddenly came to see something he'd never considered before. Something he'd never _wanted_ to consider before.

"_But there is a way. There is a way, Tom. A way to change your state – but only if you are willing to change yourself."_

It will be hard. It will be a voyage into uncharted territory. It will be a monumental success or an extravagant disaster – yet he was willing to pay the price. No matter what happens, he simply _cannot_ be at a standstill anymore. The desire to end it all was eating away at him, and he thought he would not be able to survive the adventure of death with a mind more intact than his body or soul.

Sooner or later, he reasoned. He'd have to do something sooner or later. Better sooner than later.

"Bella," he tried to call, and it came out as a dry moan.

The woman leaning against a tree stirred. She opened her dark eyes, still unfocused with sleep, and looked across the clearing to him.

Even in death, Bellatrix Lestrange was the epitome of faithfulness. She had chosen to go deep into the Forest with him rather than attend to personal needs. He didn't understand why, and at this show of loyalty he felt a slight twinge of guilt, like the step of an insect on bare skin.

"Bella, come here…" better this time; the words were only slurred and not totally indistinguishable.

He had no doubt she would obey. A moment later, she knelt with rapt attention at his side, clutching one of his deformed hands. "What is it?"

A swell of confidence_. I have a plan._ He smiled, having no idea of what he will do to achieve his goal. Maybe he should simply go along with a conversation. After all, most of the work had to be done subconsciously.

A pause.

_Do you still wish to stay?_

She looked slightly curious. "Not if you don't want me to, my Lord."

_Why have you remained for all this time, Bella?_

A shadow of sorrow crept into her eyes. "I swore allegiance to you. And I owe you, because I have failed you.

"Your _soul_, my Lord … I should be cursed for such incompetence…"

_Don't._

"Don't do what?"

_Cry._

"I'm sorry." She said, but with a strange expression. Apparently, she wasn't going to.

Another pause.

_No, _I_'m sorry._

"Sorry?" was the surprised reply.

Should have told her the truth instead of making threats, maybe. Should have done the safekeeping himself, so it would not have become such a burden on someone who did not deserve it. It would have been better that way.

_Yes. It wasn't any fault of yours._

Shouldn't keep her away from everyone else she knew – for after all, what did _he_ know of family or friendship or love? He looked at her carefully. Death was supposed to be peaceful, serene, and calm, like – like mist over still water, like snow falling onholy ground, yet she looked harrowed. Tired, dirty in a subtle sort of way. There were leaves in her hair and burrs stuck to her robes, from the times when she remembered to take a patrol around their section of forest.

No, this was not right. This daughter of the Blacks should not spend her eternity outside in the weather, not _she_ who was groomed for nobility since childhood – of course, _he_ would not know of childhood or carefree times.

There was a brief flash of pain, not the sharp kind as from a blade, but the dull sort that sets in after one has eaten spoiled food. It felt as if it came from the _inside_ of his bones. His breathing stopped for a moment, whether from the pain or from his feeling of triumph he did not know. It was working.

After the feeling had faded, the old thoughts of fear returned. It would never work.

_It will work. _

"Of course, my Lord. Your plans are brilliant." She settled down on the forest floor, among the fallen leaves and other detritus. Warm fingers gripped his hand as if in a handshake.

No, actually, he thought to himself. They may be "brilliant", but his plans of late simply had not turned out as he wished. Not when he was reincarnated, not at the Department of Mysteries. Maybe the woman sitting in front of him was one of the reasons.

She was as fanatical as fanatics came, yet could be trusted with detailed instructions instead of simply causing carnage. Like a Muggle missile (though she should not be compared to such a filthy thing), an explosion inside a sleek package. Oh no, the fault can never be hers, no matter how many times he may try to convince himself. The follower was too perfect for the cause to displease him, too insane to betray him, too entangled with his darkness to leave him.

So he never gave her pleasure, because if she were pleased she would stop striving for the greater good. So he betrayed her many times over, because the promise that he will reward her beyond her wildest dreams was one he could never fulfill. So he remained aloof and distant, because if he were actually to approach her, she would be able to leave – and he would be alone.

Bellatrix was not one of the reasons. She had fought for him, suffered for him, and, ultimately, died for him. Fate was cruel, he thought, just as cruel as he himself. It never rewarded her, as he did not, it never forgave her, as he did not, it never loved her -- as he did not.

Yet there was nothing to forgive, because only now did he realize that he himself was the culprit. Not the mastermind, but the culprit. Shouldn't have brought the Black child up as a human wreck, not a fully sentient being but a _human wreck_ with only the most extreme of emotions, almost a spitting imageof himself.

Oh, but it's good for the cause. The Cause they say with capitals. Cowards, failures, himself perhaps the greatest among them. The Cause didn't need another pureblood daughter broken, another line ended.

Then he was the leader and betrayer, the saint and the demon. The pain was back and more furious than before, as if someone had injected his veins with molten glass. His legs folded suddenly and hit him in the chin, but he was in too much torment and joy to notice. For the first time since the battle of Hogwarts, he screamed out loud –

And then it was gone again. Bellatrix looked very distressed, and the debris around her had curious patterns in it, as if she'd been twisting in many directions to try to determine the cause of his suffering. He realized that his hands were clenched tightly, and loosened his fists to see neat puncture marks in his raw palms slowly filling up with blood. Those of her fingers that have been caught in that grip remained a stark white, only slowly returning to their normal colour.

_All is well,_ he said before she could ask.

"But what was that?" the voice was urgent.

_It's working,_ he said simply, although the doubts resurfaced stronger than before. It was certain to fail. This was as far as he could possibly go.

He closed his eyes and opened them again. Breathing was almost as difficult as when he had just died. He didn't technically have to breathe, as his blood no longer flowed and his heart no longer beat, but it was one of the final links the dead had to the living. Looking up at her concerned face. Knowing she cared for him the most of all people in both worlds. Knowing she loved him. It was too perfect, yet he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Maybe; it could be possible; it was within the bounds of the imagination. Had he been more than a maimed soul inside a body of crippled flesh and cursed (blessed) blood and long-dead dust, had he been as beautiful as the rest of humanity, had he been anyone other than who (what) he was, it would have been possible – but the fact still stands that it _was_ not possible. Not possible that Lord Voldemort could be in love.

Had he been able to cry. Had he been able to give her what she desired. Had he been closer to her. Had he been whole… and the list grew.

Of all his Death Eaters, he had valued her the most. Of all those at the Ministry on the night of the prophecy mission, he had rescued her. Of all those deaths that he has seen, he had reserved his scream for her. If he could value her, if he could care for her, if he could be in so much anguish because of her, then _why couldn't he love her_?

_They say that true love is when one values another's life more than one's own. In other words, when one is willing to sacrifice oneself for another out of pure affection_, he recited.

So _there_ was his ultimate obstacle. She could die for him and the cause, but it was completely out of the question in his case.

The irony stung; because of his fear of death, he has eliminated every chance he had at redemption. Because of his attempts at immortality, he has created for himself an eternity of shame and terror. Because of his inability to love, it has become the only thing that could save him.

And then he wished that he could understand. He did not _know_ what it would be like to love, he didn't _want_ to know what it would be like, but he _needed_ to.

What if he had someone around whom he could let his guard down, relax, and truly comprehend his begrudgingly human self? What would happen if he had spared lives because of mercy and not cold-blooded convenience? – That fateful night, that Halloween, did he think of the child's poor, grieving mother when he refrained from such an easy _Avada Kedavra_? – No, surely not, surely not…

Then, if he knew mercy, he would certainly know how to forgive. _Then_, he would know why Snape had sacrificed so much for the mother of the boy he hated. _Then_, he would at least make an attempt at speaking with the victims of his other life, for by _then_ he would have learned to forgive himself.

It was as impossible as gaining a toehold on a cloud.

Yet he sought help -- and _help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it_.

There were three words he thought he'd never say. Now was the time.

_If that is true, Bella,_ he continued from his last muttering, unaware of how much time had passed in between, _then I love you._

That was a lie and he knew it. He could value her, he could care for her, he could be in anguish because of her, but he could never love her.

Yet the words were reassuring. If they could not prove that he could love (which he could not), if they could not prove his willingness to trade his life for hers (which he would not), then at least they _could _prove that he _wished_ he could.

A brief flash of understanding suddenly overcame him, followed by the third and last wave of pain. However, he was so engrossed by the revelations he had seen that he noticed nothing other than his victory – victory indeed, for although he had lost to Dumbledore, he had conquered _himself_. He stopped breathing.

Then the agony caught up with him, and it was like nothing he had experienced before. Possessing Harry Potter came close, yes -- but no matter how closely connected, they were still two separate entities -- whereas this time the source was, in essence, within and because of him.

Lying sideways in the leaves with every muscle contracted, he managed to wrench his jaw open – but no sound issued from his dry throat, because he could not distinguish between his euphoric feeling of success and the terrible, terrible pain that threatened his consciousness. After all, all feelings in an extreme state are virtually identical, are they not?

The elated half of his mind felt Bellatrix's hand an anchor of which he desired to be free. He was liberated now! Leave him alone as he always had been!

The tormented half knew it to be part of the cause for his pain, and also knew that she must never, for his soul, let go.

A final –

No, the shock _cannot_ be final –

_Yes_, it must be; the feeling of fading was like having spider webs weaved around him –

_NO!_

There was neither past nor future, but only the moment in which he was able to feel the warmth of her skin for the last time. All was indeed forgiven.

Only one thing left to do…

* * *

Author's Note: Part III and Epilogue coming up soon. Read? Review! 


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